The Sublime Art of Vanity
by DemonTsunami
Summary: She wasn't trying to create a spectacle. Of course, somethings happen regardless of intent. Join Hermione as she regains her inner lion from a boy who decided she was nothing but a doormat, and catches the eye of a over privileged snake in the process.


"If you want to give up the admiration of thousands of men for the distain of one, go ahead, get married." _Katharine Hepburn_

"I am _not _vain," Hermione Granger insisted to her magical reflection, the stranger that was her, but not quite, scowled and rolled her eyes from within the glass. "Oh, I don't have to explain myself to _you_," she retorted, well aware her sanity was shortly coming into question. She was fighting with her _reflection_ for Pete's sake! The cheeky little mirror Hermione stuck out her tongue.

"Lovely," Hermione scowled, noting wryly how the reflection's cheeks flushed even as she felt warmth travel into her own. She would never really be alright with her reflection moving quite so much, it still seemed a bit loony to her, but that was likely her Muggle heritage peeking through. A heritage she was quite proud of, thank you very much. A opinion grown from spending a lot of her childhood in a place where mirror images were not allowed to adopt attitudes, and that, she was quite certain, was all for the better. Especially as she felt rather daft standing here and debating over herself in such a way to begin with, and having her reflection getting all contradictory was not helping. Hermione sighed. Deeply.

To be honest, it wasn't really the mirror that was so infuriatingly contradictory; it was her.

_She_ was contradictory, a walking contradiction, an oxymoron, a… Damn, she'd run out of synonyms, and that rarely happened to her, betraying just how agitated she'd really become. Hermione had, in the not so distant past, always prided herself on caring very little about looks, she was who she was, bushy hair, hour glass figure, plain brown eyes, and a smile that while no longer being long toothed was far from stunning by any definition, but that was fine, because packaging hardly counted, it was the contents…Right? Last week she'd been certain it was so, that her frizzy hair and lackluster clothing had mattered little in the scheme of things, but that had been before. She eyed herself in disgust, was she so ready to change her opinion, to go against what she'd insisted for years, just because she'd been measured and found wanting?

A very large part of her wanted to say she'd never be that insecure.

The more rational part of her dryly suggested she take a closer look in the mirror lest she doubt how far the mighty had fallen. The glossy haired, make-up coated, new dress wearing girl in the mirror was _not_ a woman of scruples, but a pathetic insecure glob of angst and self doubt and it was all on a count of a certain red haired, big-breast-and-tight-clothes-loving PRAT! When she'd caught Ron doing a very good rendition of a sucker fish with his agent, an insipid bitch by the name of Gilda, she'd thought it would, if not blow over, then at least be accompanied by an explanation. In her defense, she wasn't even expecting a _brilliant _explanation, just something along the lines of 'I'm lonely and I missed you but you weren't here….' Not very clever, hell, not even _convincing_ really, but it would've done loads for her shattered and crunched heart if she hadn't heard the (albeit intoxicated and slurred) truth thrown in her face like a stray bludger. A truth that had absolutely nothing to do with missing her, that was for certain.

"_I have a reputation to think of, don't I? Expectations to meet. People expect to see a certain sort of girl with me, and Hermione, be honest, you're not exactly _it." In his drunken state, the git had the nerve to giggle at her, as if her shock was _funny_, as if her pain was _amusing_.

It turned out, that in Ron's pea brain; Gilda with the short shirt and double Ds was _it_. How very nice for her. Hermione scowled, letting the facts present themselves, even if they were despicable facts to be mulled over. He'd changed. He wasn't the boy she'd known, grown in love with, and he hadn't been for a while. All efforts to see said boy inside the despicable man he'd become had left her more heart broken with each failure, but she'd hung in there, determined that in time, he'd grow out of it as quickly as he'd fallen into it. What a fool she'd been.

At first, it was the little things. Like how Ron no longer made an effort to compliment her, or buy her flowers, or how he'd became more distant, sent less owls, never wanted to Floo to her house and sit with her while she read, like he'd used to. The list of little signs was endless, as was his list of excuses. He was too busy, he said, she couldn't expect him to dote on her hand and foot, he'd claimed, and she'd silenced her doubts in favor of telling herself she was blowing it all out of proportion. What were the fights about anyway? Petty things. Normal problems. She'd dismissed them. They'd get over it, work through it, they always had before. Self delusion was such a wonderful state of being sometimes.

Then, the real indication of problems growing occurred; it's been quick, messy, and brutal. Ron and Harry had a falling out. A _bad _falling out. She'd not taken sides, and that had only infuriated them more. What it was over, no one even knew the real cause of the separation, or at least, she never knew. Ginny might, but she'd said nothing about it at the family get -togethers; Hermione suspected everyone else had assumed that Ron confided everything to her anyway, and too embarrassed to admit that he didn't, she'd stupidly allowed her pride to keep her ignorant _and_ quiet. Two states of mind that _never_ sat well with her. Instead, she'd _comforted_ the prat! Told him she'd never leave him, ignored the fact that he didn't seem to like hearing that as much these days as he had in the past, a pained sort of tension seemed to fill him, eat at him. Stress, she'd told herself, merely stress. He was just struggling with all the responsibility is all. She wanted to laugh at her past self, but found she was more prone to end up crying for her. Mourning her past self's broken dreams and crushed aspirations, ones she sadly no longer shared.

He stopped going to the Burrow the year after that, told her his relatives were only dragging him down, that they'd turned on him for Harry. It was rubbish, of course, Molly would _never_ do something like that, but Hermione had bit her tongue and accepted his decision, despite his lack of good reasoning. She frowned deeper, suddenly caught up by just how much she'd shoved to the side in her desperation to keep Ron, how much she'd sacrificed to make this work. Wasn't that a laugh? Her giving up so much of the tendencies that made her _her_ only to be discarded for being who she was, for not being shallow and well, pretty. It wasn't as if she'd ever claimed to be like those other witches, but it seems, somewhere along the way, Ron had expected her to conform.

To conform to meet his standards, or his reputation's standards, or perhaps to just be like all the other Quidditch star's wives, so disgustingly devoted to keeping their husbands that they sacrificed all their time and dedication. Devoting themselves entirely to keeping the attention of men who frequently cheated on them, continuously, with many other women. Perhaps the fact that she'd known that much should've been a clue in and of itself, but she'd always assumed that Ron was different. That he'd genuinely cared for her, loved her, that it was stress that had him making excuses as to why he couldn't visit, or feigning exhaustion when all she wanted was a bit of attention, like a snog or hell, even a nice good solid fuck. She really should've started getting suspicious when he turned _that_ down. No bloke did, unless he was A. Not Interested, or B. Getting it Elsewhere. In this case she believed Ron was option C. All the Above.

"_You'd rather be with HER?" She wasn't hearing this, it wasn't happening, her eyes narrowed as the blonde witch gave her a smug smirk. Gilda was about to get hexed, she just didn't know it yet._

"_Ugh, Hermione," Ron slurred, holding his head a bit, "Can't we do this later? I'm a bit busy…." He flushed as the talon-like nails of the witch wrapped around his torso trailed lightly up his leg. Hermione bit her tongue so hard she tasted copper, reminding herself sternly that she did _not_ want to go to Azkaban over this prat and his slag of the hour, no matter how tempting cursing him might be._

"_So you're going to give up on us? Just like that?" she snapped her fingers for emphasis, "Because I'm not the sort of girl people _expect_?" The witch on his lap, also drunk, began nibbling his ear lobe and giggling. "Get your hands off my fiancé!" Hermione had screeched at her, beyond logic at this point. Ron frowned, whether at the term 'fiancé' or the shrillness of her tone, she wasn't certain, wasn't even sure if she wanted to be certain. _

"_Oh please," Gilda's nose wrinkled, "Get over it already. He doesn't want you. He's said as much. Now why don't you toddle off to your books?" She laughed far too enthusiastically at her own barb. _

"_Ron?" her voice wavered, filled with tears._

"_You should go," with his flat reply. _

She still shook with rage and hurt at the memory. He'd dismissed her, so easily, so casually, as if she was just clueing in to something he'd long ago adjusted to. That it was so easy for him stung, so much, so cruelly, it was akin to having her heart crushed in his palm. That it was Gilda, his tramp of a manager that she'd long detested, and been more than slightly suspicious of, was merely the icing on the bullshit cake. The blonde witch had wanted Ron since he'd first gained popularity, and she should've guessed there was more to it, when months later, after discovering Gilda's not-so-secret desire to be Mrs. Weasley, he'd refused to fire the bint.

She'd tried putting down her foot, but he'd swamped her with malarkey about how Gilda was a very good manager, even if she wasn't a very good person, and she'd relented, only after he'd accused her of not trusting him, and trying to run his life, naturally. If she thought about it too hard, she was forced to acknowledge that their tryst had likely been going on for months before she'd caught them at it, and that fact was very depressing in and of itself. She, known for her smarts, had been so _stupid_, so _blind_, to not see it before. Her ego was somewhere dark and quiet, nursing its injuries. 

So why, one felt inclined to ask, was she standing in her bedroom, looking herself over in a mirror, all dressed up and, well, _changed_? It was a matter of principle, really. This was _not_ about being pretty, or conforming, and this most certainly was not a desperate attempt to get the sod back. No. Hermione was done with him. For good. Let him have his fame, his blonde big-boobed slag, his Galleons, he could keep them, she had no interest in anything that even remotely pertained to Ronald Weasley. The real reason she was here, in front of the mirror, was because she had a point to be made, something she needed to show the world before she said good riddance to bad rubbish, and for good. Something that would make the healing process, if not easier or quicker, than a little more tolerable on her end, something she could bear, could move on from.

She was going to let a certain materialistic hormone based git see exactly what he'd given up. What she (although this was horrendously painful to admit) would likely have given him had he only indicated he wanted as much. She could be like _them_. All superficial glamour and pretty packaging, it was just that she, _unlike_ them, had better things to do. It wasn't a matter of her being incapable, hadn't she shown him that back in school, at the ball with Victor Krum? It was a matter of someone being able to look _through_ her appearance and like what was beneath it. She'd carried the silly notion that Ron had seen it, and had liked it, and that whether or not she indulged in gussying up for him made little difference. Not that, she admitted a bit bitterly, she'd ever gone this far for him, or anyone before, but this wasn't about pleasing anyone but herself. _She_ deserved to see the look on his face, _she_ deserved to feel beautiful again, and _he'd_ taken the ability from her.

Well, it was nigh time she took it back!

A slightly scary smile curved her reflections lips and she rearranged her features into something less... maniacal. Her hair, usually a mass of horrendously fried curls, was tamed into glossy auburn ringlets, shimmering in the late afternoon sunshine, and complementing the olive tone of her skin nicely. Her eyes were ringed in a smoky charcoal that made them gleam with rich chestnut hues and sparkle with light golds around the irises, a soft glittering brown was painted from the eyeliner, enhancing the effect further. Her reflection puckered her lips, drawing eyes to the light shimmer there, it coated a light beige color lip stick, and it all matched her dress, a flowing garment of reds and golds, metallic fabric that was cut jagged at the hem that floated whimsically about her mid thighs, giving her a decidedly impish look. Her shoes were a bit much, but she liked them, the bright gold pumps with the straps wrapped clean up to her knees, it reminded her of the old Muggle myths she'd read as a child, about Aphrodite, and Athena, and Greece in general. Her purse was small, a clutch, and it contained only make-up, her wand, and a magically shrunk book (no matter how she looked, she was still Hermione Granger).

She'd even, in following the 'what to do to get back at your fiancé if he's a cheating git' handbook, had secured a date for the evening. A quiet and likable fellow named Charles who worked with her at the ministry, he was attractive enough, brown hair and bright blue eyes, she supposed some might even call him handsome, but they were going only as friends. It was too soon to start dating again, to get involved in another relationship at this point would be madness, she was still far too torn up about Weasley, no matter how adamantly she'd deny it to anyone who would dare accuse her of such a thing. Being broken hearted _hurt_. That was the point of it. Still, she had pride and appearances to keep up, as far as the rest of the world was aware, she was _glad_ to be rid of Ron and his shameless selfishness. That he'd spent the last few months in Ireland, unable to comment on their breakup, had helped.

However, he was returning tonight, for a charity gala. Malfroy Industries was holding a large, and far too prestigious ball in honor of witches and wizards who'd suffered during the war. It was, she presumed, part of their attempts to generate good will, something they'd done a lot of since Draco Malfroy had taken control of his father's assets. It seemed the twenty-something millionaire was rather keen on proving how _unlike_ his father he really was. Wasn't that a far cry from the boy she remembered from school? And as far as she'd heard, it was working. He'd made a very big point of weeding out the bigots from his side of the fence, and had even convinced the Ministry of his sincerity. Naturally, for there to be a ball involving the war, the Golden Trio, as they'd been dubbed, were expected to be present. Harry would make a speech (Harry Potter making a _speech_ in Malfroy Manner, the irony was not lost on her) and she and Ron would be expected to attend. It was hardly the first event of its kind, merely the largest she'd ever been invited to.

She didn't even intend to stay long, just long enough to be seen, photographed, perhaps mingle a bit, and then leave. There would be no dramatic scene involving her and her ex fighting, no disgusting calamity where she hexed Gilda into next week, because those things would be petty and beneath her. No. She was going to attend, get her photo taken (they _always_ did that to her at these functions) and he could see how beautiful and poised she was in Witch Weekly, while he scoped out his own reviews (which she happened to know he did religiously) after the edition had printed. Besides, a confrontation would, more likely than not, entirely wreck her hard earned composure, and sort of defeat the whole point of this, which was to simply prove to herself that no matter what one red haired prat may believe, she was still pretty in her own right, still desirable.

The look in Charles' eyes as he apparated at their previously designated meeting point did wonders to inflate her confidence about how tonight would play through. He eyed her, looked around a bit, blinked, eyed her again (more slowly this time), swallowed hard, belatedly managing to spit out his stuttered greeting, a light pink tinting his cheeks.

"Blimey Hermione," he choked out, "is that _you_?" She frowned slightly; did doing her hair and putting on a dress really make _that_ much of a difference? Apparently, judging by the awe in his comically wide eyes, it did. She fought the urge to roll her own eyes at the revelation; perhaps she was the _only_ one who gave value to what lay under the surface.

"Uh…" suddenly, without warning, she began to feel garish and unsure of herself, her clothes were too flashy, her shoes ridiculous, a million nervous doubts flittered through her mind, until she voiced the largest one out loud, "Is it too much?" Light blue eyes appraised her outfit a third time. He swallowed hard again and began violently shaking his head to the negative.

"No, not at all, you look…" he faltered, "amazing, perfect, really. I was just surprised is all; you don't dress like this at the Ministry." She laughed, finally at ease when she confirmed his awe was genuine, and actually appreciative. He was male, of course he'd be affected by her changed appearance, she could hardly get into a snit about _that_.

"You can say that again," she remarked dryly. "Shall we?" She indicated the growing mass of people outside the Malfroy Manor. A long purple carpet had been laid out, and the high society was out in full, dressed to impress, and dripping fake smiles and insincere compliments as reporters snapped their photos at random intervals. It looked a bit daunting, really. She stiffened her back, letting Charles take her arm, she was Hermione Granger for Pete's sake, she did _not_ get daunted by groups of filthy rich wizards, she'd faced far worse!

Closer to the revelry, one could see the multicolored paper lanterns floating about, casting enchanting light displays as they did so, she watched in amusement as a reporter fought with one, trying to move it from the photo he was lining up. They were close now, and she straightened her posture, plastering the largest, fakest smile on her lips, her hand squeezing Charles' in building anxiety. He gave a calm, reassuring squeeze back, shooting her a slightly amused look from the corner of his eyes, he _would_ find the fact that she, of all people, feared crowds amusing. She was, after all, supposed to be the Brains of the Golden Trio, a little party should hardly intimidate her. Yet it did. She'd never been to one of these events without Harry or Ron, and despite Charles on her elbow, smiling and being polite, she still felt very much alone.

To her mortification and slight amusement, none of the reporters seemed to recognize her. She didn't know what to make of it. It wasn't as if she could call attention on herself, it was too loud already, too many people, no one was paying any attention to the brown haired witch making her way up the carpet. _No one_. Her stomach dropped to her knees, her fake smile faltering. Her plan was rubbish. This was _all_ rubbish. What had she been _thinking_?

"This party," came a cold, arrogant voice, followed by a light pressure on her shoulder, "Is invitation only." Hermione stiffened, color entering her cheeks, and ignored the amusement on Charles' face as she spun with the intention of putting whatever cheeky git had had the gall to approach her like that in his place. Honestly!

"Oh, and _you_ made the invitation list, did you?" was her cold inquiry as she turned, and then balked, because she very much wanted to swallow her own words. Draco Malfroy stood before her, tall, elegant, dressed in wizard finery, his hair still startlingly blonde but feathered instead of greased back like it had been in his earlier years, his grey eyes cool and unexpressive until they narrowed at her in slight annoyance. She didn't know what to say, really, so she merely gaped.

"Actually," he retorted without batting an eyelash, "I _did_." He _still_ didn't recognize her? She might have laughed, if she wasn't nearly certain she might end up crying if she tried to. Social situations had never been her strong suite.

"Malfroy," Charles greeted, acknowledging the blonde wizard with a nod, speaking to him with a sort of familiarity that had her slightly shocked. She wasn't aware they even knew one another. Although, as she hardly kept track of either man's acquaintances, she didn't really know _why_ she was so surprised, other than the fact that Charles seemed generally decent and Malfroy was… Well, he'd _been_ the world's biggest git in school, but she had to admit she didn't really know him that well anymore. Still, what were the odds?

"Chaucer," he greeted, eyes flickering back to Hermione momentarily and seemingly dismissively, " I apologize, I didn't realize she was your date," Malfroy shook Charles' hand, smirking a bit, but his admission had the blue eyed man chuckling in genuine amusement.

"Come now, Malfroy, _you_ don't recognize her?" Charles asked, clearly amused, "Here I thought you Malfroys had an infallible eye for detail." Malfroy frowned, turning back to her in mild interest, his grey eyes scanning her from head to foot in a manner that was far from polite. Really! She didn't miss that his eyes lingered on her low cut dress top, oh, and on her legs, and hips, and basically anything that might have to do with 'sex', but they halted in blatant shock when they met her indulgent stare.

"Hermione Granger?" He exclaimed, a little too incredulously for her liking, drawing more than a few stares. Well, she supposed she didn't have to worry about getting attention now; the host of the party had done that much for her, she could already hear the reporters conversing amongst themselves in the manner of 'Hermione? Where? Miss Granger! Miss Granger!' She eyed him in mute amusement. His eyes traveled the path they'd just taken, twice more, before meeting hers again, this time her expression was slightly less friendly. Pervert.

"Well I'll be," he muttered, low enough for only her and Charles to hear, reporters were already flashing their cameras, eager to get shots of her with Malfroy, probably. He was popular in his own right too, being obscenely rich and single.

"That's what _I_ said," Charles chuckled, ignoring her slightly disgruntled frown.

"Shouldn't there be a Weasley around here somewhere?" Malfroy questioned blandly, looking around for a moment as if expecting a red head to pop up at the mere mention of it, "He's quite the fool to leave her alone with you, Chaucer." His comment was mostly teasing, at least she believed so, it was sort of hard to tell. Her escort tensed almost imperceptibly at the query, eyeing her expectation, clearly at a loss as to what she wanted him to divulge.

Oh yes, this was the part where she got to awkwardly explain her fiancé of seven years had broken it off with her on account of the fact that she wasn't pretty enough. To put it so bluntly would likely earn her endless amusement from her childhood antagonist, Malfroy had never liked her or Ron, and he'd probably waste little time letting his good humor at her misfortune be known. She always skirted the true reason for the breakup, naturally, but admitting _anything_ to Malfroy about her failures seemed as desirable as drinking a Polyjuice potion. She sighed to herself, eyeing the grey eyed host with a forced smile.

"Actually, nobody _left_ me with anyone," she retorted a bit coldly, "Chaucer is my date," she smiled, a bit wanly, but she was proud she managed even that much.

"Ah," too perceptive grey eyes took in the wizard standing next to her, "I thought you liked that Belinda witch, the one at the florist?" Hermione stifled her shock that Malfroy was privileged to Charles' likes and dislikes, especially in romantic matters; they really must be closer than she'd thought.

"Still do," Charles affirmed, when Malfroy glanced at Granger meaningfully the wizard clarified, "We're just friends." He squeezed her hand to take some of the sting from his dismissive tone. "Of course," he added, giving her a sideways glance, "Between you and me, I think I might reconsider that bit, that Weasley doesn't have any clue what he gave up. It would serve him right if someone else stepped in." She smiled fondly at the brown haired man, he was so nice, so comforting, it was why she'd asked him to go with her in the first place. They'd always gotten along, in a purely platonic manner mind you, and even now she could tell he was just joking about wanting her, but with the best intentions. It _did_ cheer her up, if only a bit.

"Gave up?" Malfroy, of course, had to latch onto _that_ tid bit. He eyed her in sardonic amusement, "Too much woman for him, eh Granger?" Her eyebrows rose of their own accord, she hadn't expected him to say _that_.

"Something like that," she muttered, suddenly embarrassed. "We should go, we're holding people up." It was true, there was now a line of people hovering nearby, probably hoping to say hello to Malfroy, it was _his_ party after all. Instead of letting them move on though, and going to greet the next set of guests, Malfroy merely sighed, and indicated they follow him indoors. Charles directed her forward, but she tensed.

"What about greeting people?" she fretted, not sure she wanted to spend any of her evening in the grey eyed wizard's company. He was being decent so far, but she wasn't sure how long that would last. What with their history and all. Besides, she wasn't really comfortable being the center of attention for long, and next to Malfroy they would certainly stay the center of attention. Her being who she was, and him being who he was, the newspapers would lap up the sight of them, probably lavishing the story with endless embellishments. It would all be a hassle, and not much more.

"My mum is better at that sort of thing," Draco replied dismissively, his grey eyes scanning hers as he smirked, he seemed to reach some inward conclusion, frowning at her slightly, "Why? Afraid to be seen with me Granger?" Her eyebrows rose again.

"I might ask the same of you," she replied evenly. Chaucer looked a bit lost, his eyes flickering between the two uncomfortably. Draco rolled his eyes at her comment.

"I'm offering the invitation, aren't I?" He pointed out archly. She sighed. Yes, he was, wasn't he? This was all Charles' fault, really, how did the middle class Auror know one of the wealthiest men in London? And they seemed to be friends! It was so improbable it was rather funny. "Come now, I don't bite," Malfroy prodded, "I do know how to behave myself in public, you know." His seemingly reassuring words were completely contradicted by his devious smirk, and the intense gleam in his eyes. He was challenging her, _daring_ her to say his company wasn't good enough. Oh bother.

"We'd be delighted," Charles said in her place, causing both of them to frown at him. He paled a bit, "T-t-that is if _you_ want to, I mean…" he trailed off nervously. Hermione smiled at him warmly, taking his elbow.

"Of course. A Malfroy on good behavior is sure to be a sight worth seeing," she replied, and that was about as diplomatic as her answer was likely ever going to get. Malfroy smirked in amusement, and gestured for them to follow him. She noted with a reluctant sort of awe that the crowd seemed to part for him in a way it hadn't for her, allowing him to walk in his smooth stride, the epitome of grace and good upbringing. It was hard to piece this teasing man to the snide child she'd known, if it wasn't for his hair, and those eyes, she would've never guessed they were the same person.

"He really does behave," Charles confided to her good naturedly, his voice a whisper, "People are just so quick to judge him, and even I'll admit he can be standoffish, but I swear he means well." She wasn't really convinced, but she shot her date a smile.

"If he can behave, I can," she responded in an equally hushed tone as they weaved through the groups of chatting guests. "Besides, I'm not above giving people second chances." She'd given Ron enough of them, hadn't she? In any case, tagging along with Malfroy would help ensure she never ran into Ron, that was for certain. Years could pass, second chances be given, but she very highly doubted the animosity between the two had ever cooled. Ron had still gotten pissy about seeing Malfroy in the papers long after they'd finished school, and Malfroy hadn't seemed to be too keen on the red head either based on their earlier conversation. Some things simply didn't change.


End file.
